Moving on
Seeing that almost half a year has elapsed since my last entry, I feel it's time to move on. Perhaps I will leave this blog as it stands, a record of 6 years of movements. But before summarizing the happenings of the strange months gone by, I wish to describe the feelings prompted by my first walk from the bus stop to my new home in the Robertsau suburbs of Strasbourg. My arrival in Alsace was beclouded by freezing fog, as the delightful Anne Huber-Weber shuttled me across the Place du Gare. The lights of the Conseils d'Europe shone mysteriously through the gloom, reflecting upon the river beloz and reminding me that this is a city of European policy, as well as many other facets that I am yet to discover (having munched my way through an enormous jambon-emmenthal sandwich, I feel I should be out there discovering the neighbourhood, but those fleeting sentiments of being a new arrival demand to be recorded and it's shamefully long since I have written- I should at least jot this down before I disappear once more into the ether of being la stagière of Association Migration Solidarité et Echanges pour le Développement).
It was seven pm, dark and frosty. Chemin de l'Anguille runs parallel to a river and seems to divide the comparable hubbub of the Robertsau suburb from the French countryside. The beginning of the walk sees a rusting ghost of a tall gate leading to a path though grown-up, though winter-skinny, trees. On your right looms a lonely factory, which Anne tells me makes among the last fine-quality artists paper in France. She should know, being an art teacher and maker of gravure herself. Steam from the one chimney blends into the marroon-grey clouds and few lights can be seen, despite the low rumble of clunking machinery. The walls that mark the perimeter are crumbling and full of breaches. Anne tells me that the factory is on its last legs, its 100 employees to join the queues along with the 3000 daily becoming unemployed in France at present. The site has been bought by a construction company; Anne grumbles over the imminent influx of cheap housing in what remains a quiet area.
It was the sense of everything being different and new, once again, that gave me warm butterflies inside the woollen coat that keeps out the bitter cold- a realisation that I'm back where I love to be after months of worrying what I'm to do- a novice in a strange environment that inevitably throws up comparisons with novel beginnings of the past- Japan, Ghana, Brittany...I'm so far from Japan- how can this same body feel so similarly open and willing to delve in when the environment is so alien? The very angles that surround you feel different- the reassurance of the flat ground belief is quickly overwhelmed by the absense of forested mountains, a sky glimpsed now through twigs. The trees are different, the smell of the cold, the colour of the sky, the walls and fences and cars and leaves. In Japan things feel more tucked away, especially industrial plants- here they form the pivot of communities and dominate the landscape. However, this 10 minute stroll is but a peek; Strasbourg is unknown to me. It's stifling, that lack of knowledge of street layout, bus routes, services and support networks. But it's exciting, knowing through past experiences that this initial alienation will slowly fade to a new bubble of life and familiarity. Traces of links have begun to form- I know I must take the number 30 or 6 bus, that a ticket costs 90c. That there's a pharmacy just across the tram tracks and that lunch is from 12 to 2. Challenges have arisen- what's 'stye' in French? ('orgelet', pronounced with a 'zh' rather than a harh 'g')- the matrix of understanding afforded by a tingling in the eyelid and Myriam pointing me across the tracks! A projected timetable for an event in Montpellier, translated into French by me, returned to my desk covered in red scribbles- du not de la, interaction not communication, mise en adéquation de partenariats rather than mettre ensemble les partenaires...my French has a LONG way to go.
Chats with Anne have convinced me that this is going to be an enriching time- deeply touching after a chat about development, wealth and the concept of equality was her assurance that I'd already done something humanitarian. "Pourquoi? Parce sans toi, je serais toute seule". Despite her loving children and grandchildren making regular appearances, the loss of her husband to an incomprehensibly bland other women has left her lonely, and it gives her pleasure and meaning to be able to cook for me and chat across the kitchen table. That will remain in my head. Despite my misgivings about letting go a bit of my independence (i.e. waking at 10, watching-and hissing at- Jeremy Kyle in my pyjamas and weekends of sleepless partying and friends), I feel this will be a nourishing time, full of occupying activities and contact with different people. Yesterday, for instance, I was shown to the bus stop by Tarek, son of Palestinian immigrants who's studying social development and volunteers for AMSED, and I ate lunch with Kristel, a softly-spoken Cameroonian gospel singer who's lived all over and now studies management, as well as helping at AMSED. Her lamb chops dwarfed her and the desperation in her face as she whisperingly asked if I could finish one off for her was priceless.
My main problem is not understanding French jokes and looking like a braindead goldfish half the time. I'm realising that past stagiaires have got involved with high-level organisational stuff- my predecessor Sylvia organised an exchange trip to Hungary by herself- I worry that my ambitions and skills are poor compared to these zingy young things. Time will tell- it seems like a fairly chaotic environment and I suspect I'm going to have to take the initiative...blah blah.
Back to embroilment in a whole new lqnguqge- not just of French but of development-speak- 'stakeholders', 'projects', 'network-building', 'resources', 'socio-cultural contexts' and the like. I feel it bubbling away and am hoping to ferret this all away, in some semblance of organisation, in a new blog related to migration. I'm scheduled to go to a Round Table on the place of foreign residents in Strasbourg next Tues so I might start with that, slowly cranking up to some overview of what the hell's going on and what I have to say about it, before hopefully starting an MSc in Mig Studies in Amsterdam next Sept. I have a feeling that a lot of what I'm to discover is to go against the theoretical grain of modern social anthropology, which winces at the mention of 'traditional folklore', 'culture of origin' and 'the Euro-Mediterranean' but frankly, I'm excited about getting a bit biased, and doing something rather than debating terms and burning my proverbial butterfly net with poncey vocabularly that no-one really understands. Rhizomatic globalisation anybody??
Watch this space...
It was seven pm, dark and frosty. Chemin de l'Anguille runs parallel to a river and seems to divide the comparable hubbub of the Robertsau suburb from the French countryside. The beginning of the walk sees a rusting ghost of a tall gate leading to a path though grown-up, though winter-skinny, trees. On your right looms a lonely factory, which Anne tells me makes among the last fine-quality artists paper in France. She should know, being an art teacher and maker of gravure herself. Steam from the one chimney blends into the marroon-grey clouds and few lights can be seen, despite the low rumble of clunking machinery. The walls that mark the perimeter are crumbling and full of breaches. Anne tells me that the factory is on its last legs, its 100 employees to join the queues along with the 3000 daily becoming unemployed in France at present. The site has been bought by a construction company; Anne grumbles over the imminent influx of cheap housing in what remains a quiet area.
It was the sense of everything being different and new, once again, that gave me warm butterflies inside the woollen coat that keeps out the bitter cold- a realisation that I'm back where I love to be after months of worrying what I'm to do- a novice in a strange environment that inevitably throws up comparisons with novel beginnings of the past- Japan, Ghana, Brittany...I'm so far from Japan- how can this same body feel so similarly open and willing to delve in when the environment is so alien? The very angles that surround you feel different- the reassurance of the flat ground belief is quickly overwhelmed by the absense of forested mountains, a sky glimpsed now through twigs. The trees are different, the smell of the cold, the colour of the sky, the walls and fences and cars and leaves. In Japan things feel more tucked away, especially industrial plants- here they form the pivot of communities and dominate the landscape. However, this 10 minute stroll is but a peek; Strasbourg is unknown to me. It's stifling, that lack of knowledge of street layout, bus routes, services and support networks. But it's exciting, knowing through past experiences that this initial alienation will slowly fade to a new bubble of life and familiarity. Traces of links have begun to form- I know I must take the number 30 or 6 bus, that a ticket costs 90c. That there's a pharmacy just across the tram tracks and that lunch is from 12 to 2. Challenges have arisen- what's 'stye' in French? ('orgelet', pronounced with a 'zh' rather than a harh 'g')- the matrix of understanding afforded by a tingling in the eyelid and Myriam pointing me across the tracks! A projected timetable for an event in Montpellier, translated into French by me, returned to my desk covered in red scribbles- du not de la, interaction not communication, mise en adéquation de partenariats rather than mettre ensemble les partenaires...my French has a LONG way to go.
Chats with Anne have convinced me that this is going to be an enriching time- deeply touching after a chat about development, wealth and the concept of equality was her assurance that I'd already done something humanitarian. "Pourquoi? Parce sans toi, je serais toute seule". Despite her loving children and grandchildren making regular appearances, the loss of her husband to an incomprehensibly bland other women has left her lonely, and it gives her pleasure and meaning to be able to cook for me and chat across the kitchen table. That will remain in my head. Despite my misgivings about letting go a bit of my independence (i.e. waking at 10, watching-and hissing at- Jeremy Kyle in my pyjamas and weekends of sleepless partying and friends), I feel this will be a nourishing time, full of occupying activities and contact with different people. Yesterday, for instance, I was shown to the bus stop by Tarek, son of Palestinian immigrants who's studying social development and volunteers for AMSED, and I ate lunch with Kristel, a softly-spoken Cameroonian gospel singer who's lived all over and now studies management, as well as helping at AMSED. Her lamb chops dwarfed her and the desperation in her face as she whisperingly asked if I could finish one off for her was priceless.
My main problem is not understanding French jokes and looking like a braindead goldfish half the time. I'm realising that past stagiaires have got involved with high-level organisational stuff- my predecessor Sylvia organised an exchange trip to Hungary by herself- I worry that my ambitions and skills are poor compared to these zingy young things. Time will tell- it seems like a fairly chaotic environment and I suspect I'm going to have to take the initiative...blah blah.
Back to embroilment in a whole new lqnguqge- not just of French but of development-speak- 'stakeholders', 'projects', 'network-building', 'resources', 'socio-cultural contexts' and the like. I feel it bubbling away and am hoping to ferret this all away, in some semblance of organisation, in a new blog related to migration. I'm scheduled to go to a Round Table on the place of foreign residents in Strasbourg next Tues so I might start with that, slowly cranking up to some overview of what the hell's going on and what I have to say about it, before hopefully starting an MSc in Mig Studies in Amsterdam next Sept. I have a feeling that a lot of what I'm to discover is to go against the theoretical grain of modern social anthropology, which winces at the mention of 'traditional folklore', 'culture of origin' and 'the Euro-Mediterranean' but frankly, I'm excited about getting a bit biased, and doing something rather than debating terms and burning my proverbial butterfly net with poncey vocabularly that no-one really understands. Rhizomatic globalisation anybody??
Watch this space...